One Dance
by Kurai Himitsu
Summary: The dance, it seemed, had ended. Somehow, she knew it would be the last they shared. [vig]


**A/N:** Not quite sure where this idea came from. Hope you like it.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money!

**Ratings:** PG

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** It's a secret…

**Main Characters:** Christine and Erik

**Additional Notes:** Kudos to anyone who can name the song this was spawned from. Enjoy.

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_One Dance_

She had been alone in her dressing room, preparing for a new performance—_Mignon_, Thomas's opera—when he had appeared behind her, like some god of the shadows, unfurling silently into the space but not quite entering the light. Always, he remained just beyond the glare of the light. Her blue eyes widened and she turned to him, her face slack in some half-formed fear that he had returned for her once more. Silence for three weeks and then this—what had he planned for her this time? He did not move any further or make any other movement for a long while and they both stared. His intent was unclear, but Christine relaxed; after all, it seemed that he meant her no ill will on this occasion.

"Erik?" she murmured weakly, nervously.

He did not answer at first and merely watched her. It was as though a great sadness had bent his frame and he seemed altogether hazy and inconsistent. "Christine," he said at last, with a heavy whispered sigh. "Forgive me. I had to see you again, and this may be—" He cut himself short and looked away for a brief moment, as if considering his words carefully, before looking back at her. She could not see his eyes. "Please, Mademoiselle Daaé, may I have a dance?"

She blinked, her small hand going to her neck and surprise echoing in her eyes. "E-Erik…"

A sense of urgency entered the room and his hidden gaze seemed to plead with her. "_Christine_, please…"

As the hesitation gave way, she bit her lip and walked toward him, his gloved hand now outstretched and waiting for her own. Her hand slid into his and he timidly pulled her close, his other hand resting lightly on her waist. Though there was no music, they began to move to a melody that only he could hear, waltzing slowly about the edge of the light, as they always had in one way or another. She could feel all his love for her radiating from him as he soaked her in; every inch of her, he committed to memory. He was uncomfortable though, she could see, but there was something different about this dance, something strange and unsettling. She felt no mortal fear for herself, only a vague sense that something was wrong, horribly wrong. His masked face never looked away from her gaze again; he pulled her closer still and she could feel him shaking, and hear the slight raggedness to his breath. Then, her eyes caught the dim glint of a single tear that slid from beneath the mask. Slowly, they stopped—the dance, it seemed, had ended. Somehow, she knew it would be the last they shared.

"Erik?" He took no notice of the offending tear and merely brushed his gloved fingers down her cheek with such sadness. "Please," she begged, the vague fear beginning to come into the light. "What's wrong? You are not as yourself."

He chuckled softly. "Yes, you must forgive me. I have not been feeling well as of late, and I do believe I should…leave, for a time."

She took a breath. "Leave?"

"Yes. I won't hold you back any longer." He released her hand.

"Will I see you again, Erik?" Her eyes held a small infantine hope, weak at best, but there all the same.

A brooding silence, wrought with half-fed dreams and sorrow followed; he sighed quietly, turning away and adjusting his cloak. "In time, Mademoiselle. Not for a while, but in time…" He swallowed, pausing for a moment with his back still to her. "Christine… Please, know that whatever I have done, I have always loved you, and I always will."

Her mouth opened and she nearly questioned him but a knock stopped her. She turned to the door, startled, and when her eyes sought him again he was gone. She sighed. Another knock drove her to open the door, where she found the Persian; his astrakhan cap was perched precariously to one side of his head and he was pale. He looked at her with jade eyes full of some indescribable emotion.

"Monsieur le Persian?"

The man shook his head. "He's gone," he said simply. "Erik is dead." Her eyes widened and all blood and feeling left her. "I found him this morning, Mademoiselle. It was poison, of his own design." Her eyes turned to the shadows, the tears pressing at their backs, burning.

Indeed, it had been their final dance.

"_I love you…and I always will…"_

—_Fin_—

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**A/N:** I hope you liked it! I really wrote this in less than an hour on the spur of the moment. Please, _review!_


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